


Passion

by tarie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 01:59:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarie/pseuds/tarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Passion rules us all and Ron finds that he cannot escape its intoxicating ways.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passion

**Author's Note:**

> This was totally inspired by Cugami's R/D art entitled _Hell and An Even Hotter Place_. Italicised dialogue at the beginning, middle, and end of the fic was spoken by Angelus on  Buffy the Vampire Slayer in Season 2, Episode 17 (Passion), which was written by Ty King.

_"Passion. It lies in all of us. Sleeping... ...waiting... And though unwanted... ...unbidden... it will stir...open its jaws, and howl. It speaks to us... guides us... Passion rules us all. And we obey. What other choice do we have?"_

He doesn't want to want him. Wanting Malfoy isn't something he is supposed to do; he is supposed to be at odds with him. After all, Malfoy is out to get Harry any way he can and calls Hermione hurtful, derogatory names. Malfoy is a bigoted pointy snot and stands for everything Ron hates in a person. He _should_ hate Malfoy. He _wants_ to hate him. Ron wants to hate Malfoy so badly that he can taste the coppery tang of bitterness in his throat, so sharp and true and unwilling to _go away_ , no matter how much Honeyduke's chocolate he eats to try to make it do just that.

But Ron can't hate Malfoy, no matter how hard he tries.

And try he does. He tells himself that he hates the way Malfoy wears his uniform and the way he combs his hair. He tells himself that he hates the way Malfoy sneers when Gryffindor loses house points and the way his eyes always follow Harry. He tells himself that he hates the way Malfoy drawls when he talks and the way he brandishes his wand. He tells himself that he hates Malfoy. But when Malfoy's eyes happen to catch his across the classroom or across the Great Hall, what Ron hates most about Malfoy is the way he doesn't hate Malfoy at all.

Malfoy hates _him_. Of that much he is certain. Going out of his way to call Ron 'Weasel' at every opportunity or to belittle Ron's hand-me-down robes doesn't exactly seem like offers of friendship, after all.

Ron lays awake at night, staring right through the canopy of his four-poster unseeing, wondering why he cannot muster up the hate for Malfoy that had come so willingly when he was younger. This isn't right and he knows it. Thinking of Malfoy day and night is unhealthy and unwanted. Hermione and Harry make a few comments about how distracted he has been lately but he laughs it off and challenges them to a game of wizard's chess or Exploding Snap, distracting them from dissecting him and laying him open bare. He wouldn't want them to see him stripped open like that. They wouldn't like what they saw, no more than he liked what he thought they would see. No, what he _knew_ they would see.

There is something inside of him stirring, moving. Ron doesn't want it to be there but there it is and there is nothing he can do about it. He is a slave to it, this sensation of opening and _becoming_. 

One day he finds himself walking back from the Quidditch Pitch alone. Harry had skived off early; Snape did not like it if he was tardy for an Occlumency lesson (no more than he liked it when Harry was on time). After flying a few extra laps about the pitch, Ron touches down and heads back to the castle. He gets no more than a few feet before that sensation inside awakens and _becomes_. He is not alone there in the dim light with this unwavering and unforgiving arousal within. Someone is there.

Malfoy.

Malfoy falls in step just behind him on the path back to school. As he hadn't been on the pitch earlier, Ron wonders where he is coming from but does not ask. It isn't his business. 

Reaching the door to the first floor, Ron pulls it open and moves to walk through it. He does not get far, as Malfoy pushes past him roughly, his shoulder jostling Ron's. Not stopping to apologise, Malfoy continues on down the corridor. Something inside Ron snaps. Unhinges. A rush of blood. A howl-- Of what? Desire? Fury? Annoyance? -- screams in his mind. Ron is urged forward and he obeys, long legs and lean arms pumping as he rushes after Malfoy. He is not sure why is he doing it or what he will say when he catches up to him. All he is sure of is that he has no choice in the matter. Something unknown rules him and he cannot resist it.

_"Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love... the clarity of hatred... and the ecstasy of grief."_

Ron does not know how he ends up in a dusty, abandoned classroom with Draco Malfoy. One moment, he is reaching out behind Malfoy, grabbing hold of him by the elbow and ignoring his questions and raised voice and then, in the next, he is pushing Malfoy up against an old teacher's desk. His hands grip onto the lip of the desk on either side of Malfoy's body and Malfoy looks up into his eyes, his own wide and flashing with something Ron cannot read before they narrow practically into slits. He does not tell Ron no nor does he push him away. Instead, he raises a hand to Ron's faded maroon jumper, the tips of his fingers brushing against a bit of worn, nubby wool almost tentatively. Ron is suprised when Malfoy does not withdraw his hand in disgust from a piece of clothing he had not hesitated to heckle Ron about in the past. A low rumble sounds in Malfoy's throat and Ron hears himself mimic it as he pushes his chest against Malfoy's hand, forcing him to touch more of that which had once disgusted him. Perhaps Malfoy is still digusted by him. Ron doesn't know for sure. All he does know, as Malfoy runs the flat of his palm down Ron's jumper and meets his eyes once more, holding his gaze steadily, is that perhaps Malfoy, too, is becoming. Has become. Has surrendered to this undeniable something inside.

Malfoy's hands move to the hem of his jumper and Ron removes his from the edge of the desk, grabs his wrists and pins them behind Malfoy's back. Hips buck in protest, teeth nip and tug sharply at the sensitive shell of his ear, and threats of hexes are hissed in a voice so serious and scathing that Ron cannot deny that Malfoy quite intends to do those things to him. He doesn't care, pulling one hand away and gripping both wrists firmly in the other. Pressing his frame against Malfoy's, Ron works open the buttons of his shirt and pushes it open, moving it and Malfoy's robe to his side, exposing a pale, muscular chest. Ron has never seen a chest like this before - one so smooth and broad and toned. His own isn't too bad but it is covered with freckles and isn't as defined as Malfoy's. Malfoy's skin, Ron finds, is as smooth as it looks and so very soft, not to mention responsive. He eyes Malfoy's face wonderingly, tracing light designs on his chest and watching how Malfoy's face screws up, how his nostrils flare, how his mouth opens slightly to allow a thin whimper to slip past his lips. Overcome with the desire to swallow that whimper, Ron dips his head down and takes from Malfoy's mouth. Malfoy does not hesitate or take pause. Malfoy kisses back hungrily and with a ferocity that makes his blood rush to a frenzied pace and the howling in his mind to become that much louder. Hands upon flesh grope and scratch, hips rock against hips, and Ron can no longer be responsible for his actions. The drive, the pull inside him does as it wishes and he is at its mercy. Biting down on Malfoy's lip, Ron draws blood and pulls back, watching as a crimson rivulet trickles out of the side of Malfoy's mouth. He is fascinated by its garish and elegant beauty, so bright against the whiteness. Hands undo trousers and, before he lowers himself to his knees to tug Malfoy's trousers and shorts down and off, he darts his tongue out to lap up the sign of their coming together. It stings his tongue and stains his mind and he is spiralling, forever spiralling. Malfoy moans and rubs his cock against Ron's lips and Ron laughs from the absurdity of it all. He laughs because this is Malfoy and this is him and they are what they are and it is madness. It is madness and it is undeniable and they both want it. Their reasons may not be the same but the want is and that is enough. That is enough and Ron parts his lips, sucking Malfoy's cock into his mouth and devouring it with his teeth and tongue. He takes as much of Malfoy as he is offered and more, hands fondling his balls, needing to feel their weight against his skin as much as his mouth needs to taste him. There is a fire deep within, rising up above the whirling and the pulling and oh Ron finds that it is the most delightful thing he has ever experienced. The heat of the flames and the warmth of Malfoy's cock in his mouth and the softness of Malfoy's sac against his hand are pure, unadulterated _bliss_ and surely nothing can feel better than this. 

But he quickly discovers that he is wrong. Something _can_ feel better than that and _how_. His fingers work quickly and clumsily, stretching Malfoy and then he positions himself. Malfoy's hands find purchase around his neck, nails digging into his nape and hauling him in for a kiss. There is a brief sting of pain and his mouth is wet; Malfoy has returned his earlier favour. Head falls back and Malfoy's tongue laves across his skin from the corner of his mouth to the base of his neck. Chest presses against chest with a groan while a hand, his, guides his cock to Malfoy's entrance. There is a brief moment where Ron is not sure he will fit but it passes as he feels the tight ring of muscle giving way and admitting him. And then...

It really is bliss. It is bliss and it is joy and it is, in that moment, love. It is love for this becoming, this being, this is. Ron whimpers and Malfoy bucks and they rise and fall against one another. Awkwardly at first, and then they find themselves. They find them and it is perfect. Perfect and hot and _ohsogoodyesmore_. _More more more moremoremoremore_ \--

In the moment when Malfoy keens and arches and clenches against and around him, Ron feels something even more powerful than before. Something that is dark and frightening in its intensity. He _hates_ this.

He hates this because he loves it. He loves every fucking minute of it and he cannot help himself.

And when Malfoy wraps his legs around Ron's waist and wails, Ron's orgasm rips through him. His orgasm rips through him and he buries his face in the crook of Malfoy’s neck and cries. A hand grips at Malfoy’s leg and he cries because it is too much. Too much joy too much love too much clarity too much hate too much ecstasy just _too much_.

_"It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion, maybe we'd know some kind of peace. But we would be hollow. Empty rooms, shuttered and dank... Without passion, we'd be truly dead."_

Malfoy comes shortly after him, his warm release splashing on their bellies. A few of Ron's tears slip down Malfoy's chest, cutting through the sweat and sliding down to pool with the result of their passion. Heavy-hearted and feeling too much at once, Ron pulls back from Malfoy but does not look away. He is not ashamed. Malfoy says nothing of his tears, which surprises him somehow. He looks long and hard back at Ron and nods as if he understands. His eyes drop to the cuff of his sleeve briefly and then he lifts his hand, wiping at Ron's cheeks and giving him a hard look. Ron hears Malfoy say in a low voice that he hurts, too, but he can only grunt in reply.

It seems to Ron that he should feel hollow now for some reason, that he should rid himself of this too much. He cannot do that, no matter how much he might want to do so. Passion has stirred deep inside him and it owns him. It owns him and he becomes it.

He becomes alive. 

As Malfoy's hands smooth out wrinkles on Ron's jumper and his lip curls as a speck of dirt brushes off of the natty wool, Ron knows that Malfoy, too, is ruled by passion.

They are alive. They have become.


End file.
